


Oh, Love Came Over Me

by lenfantduvendredi



Series: rip my heart out (pour my soul out) [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Flashbacks to prior abuse, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Joker/Harley - Freeform, Rating May Change, Relationship Appropriate Warnings, Slow Burn, tags to be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenfantduvendredi/pseuds/lenfantduvendredi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since leaving Jay Valeska, Harleen's life has been hell, a revolving door of external victim blame, internal screaming, and trying to get her life back on track. One particularly stressful day on her way home, she runs into a tattoo parlor and meets Chato Santana, a man with as many demons as hers. Nobody ever said that healing was linear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Life after Jay was suffering, but then again, so was life with Jay.

The subway rattled slightly around her, Harleen pulling her bag closer to her and shifting in her seat. Her therapist kept telling her that it was okay to freak out the way that she was all the time, to be so hypervigilant and to see things where there most certainly weren’t things to see. That it was okay to hate the color green and be triggered by the sound of people laughing in public places.

She hated this. She hated having the knowledge of the complexities of human psychology, and having the knowledge that it was normal for her to be reacting to her trauma the way that she was, but not being able to do anything about how she was feeling _because_ of the complexity of human psychology. Dr. Harleen Quinzel could rationalize her trauma all she wanted to, but that didn’t stop her from feeling it any less. She sighed, pushing her glasses up her face. Sometimes she hated her career. Sometimes she hated it more that she was now a shrink that needed her head shrunk.

Her icy eyes scanned the crowd in the car that she had chosen to ride in that day. It was force of habit. She was stressed. She was lonely. Mostly, she wanted to crawl into her bed and sleep through the entirety of her sabbatical. That was another thing that she wasn’t excited about. Arkham was making her take time off of work, to heal from everything that she’d gone through a bit before delving back into work with people…

With people…

 _With people who have the same issues that you have and **worse** , Harleen_, she told herself.

The train began to pull into the station. Harleen stood, fixing her slacks and her blazer after, her hand wrapping around the cool metal of the pole nearest to her as they slid to a cool stop. Her hand slipped into her pocket, her fingers curling through the Wild Kat keychain that Selina had gotten her before they’d stopped talking. She liked it, though nothing really made her feel safe anymore. She had cut her hair, wore her glasses all the time, moved into a new place with a much better security system, had her groceries delivered… Her whole life had been uprooted since Jay’s indictment had been overturned, and she still didn’t feel safe. Even as she melted in with the crowd to leave the subway tunnel, she could feel someone’s eyes on her. A wave of a very familiar cologne made her panic for a split second, the doctor looking around her for a flash of green hair. She didn’t see anything, but she couldn’t shake the creeping, crawling feeling on her skin.

So, she kept walking, keeping her eyes on the reflections that moved along buildings in her periphery. Gotham was always so very busy. She kept moving. She wanted to work on keeping her streak going, getting out f her apartment for at least an hour or two a day outside of her commute. Some days were good. Most days were like today, a quiet pain rising in her throat as if she was being hunted. She felt like prey. Jay had made her feel like that a lot more toward the end.

Glancing across the street as she prepared to cross with the crowd of busy Gothamites on their way to various homes and offices, the pain in her throat got worse. She was almost positive that was her ex, and she wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Turning around, the blonde woman made a mental note of the street she was on and walked at a quicker pace than she had been. It was hard to ignore the pain in her shins as she powered through, but that didn’t compare to what would come if-

_No. Don’t go back to that place. Right here, right now._

Jay did a number on her. On _all_ of her. Her savior then had been heralded by lights, just as it was now. Today, it didn’t come in flashing lights and sirens. Today, it came in a flickering neon sign that read TATTOO, hanging above a dingy shop that didn’t seem like the place that one would want to get tattooed. Harleen froze in the doorway, lifting her free hand to rub slightly at the back of her neck. Under the collar of her shirt, her fingers brushed over the scars left by her very first –and last- session under a needle. Telling herself that she was just ducking in to take shelter, the doctor grabbed the handle of the door, slipping into the shop as the bell tinkled merrily overhead.

The sight of the inside of the shop was not what she was expecting from the outside, coiling vines in a traditional tattoo style spiraling along whitewashed walls, peeking out from behind framed sheets of sample tattoos on papers of varying shades of yellow. She wasn’t the type to vilify tattoos, as she always told her patients that art was a good way to work through self-expression and what better art than ink permanently on your skin? It just wasn’t her thing. Still, she found herself mesmerized by the art framed there on the walls, comfortable enough to leave her Wild Kat in her pocket for the time being. Instead, she wrung her hands at chest level, a habit that she had picked up in recent months.

“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?” a sassy voice asked from the back room, beaded curtain clattering as the petite girl walked through it.

“Oh?” Harleen turned, finally really seeing the young woman. Her long, curly hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, an elegant mess of black and silver curls and flyaways. It looked as though she had an undercut, though Harleen couldn’t really tell from a head-on angle. Vines similar to the ones that spiraled across the walls curled around her neck in vibrant shades of green and stark black lines, the young doctor sure that she was staring if the smirk on the artist’s lips was anything to go by. “N-no, I’m just looking. I was-“

The door over the bell interrupted, tinkling merrily again. Harleen’s heart leapt into her throat as she turned to look at the man that entered, hoping to god that it wasn’t someone that she knew from Jay’s gang. She recognized him, of course, but from work, not from the gang. She had caught sight of his mug shot on a medical file, but he wasn’t one of her patients, so it had been off-limits to her. Those tattoos were quite distinct, and she highly doubted that there were many people who had a scythe tattooed dead center of their forehead.

“Chato! It’s good to see you around here again!” the girl chirped. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

His response was a roll of his dark eyes and muttered Spanish that sounded close to ‘shut up, you little shit’. Harleen felt her lips curl into a soft smile, turning to look at the art on the wall once more. Doing so afforded her a glimpse of someone who seemed uncomfortably familiar and equally as menacing outside, approaching the front. Jay was unmistakable, and she knew that he was doing this just to taunt her. Being trapped inside a tattoo parlor may have given her shelter for the moment, but she had to leave sometime.

“Marisol, put the closed sign up,” the man, Chato, spoke, his dark eyes watching Harleen with an expression that the psychiatrist couldn’t quite decipher. She wasn’t sure if it was the tattoos, lack of eyebrows, or both that were throwing her for a loop.

“She doesn’t have an appointme-“

“Do it, Marisa. I’m your last client today anyway, little sister.”

The petite girl muttered a reluctant ‘okay’, flipping the sign from open to closed and quickly turning off all the neon lights in the window. Blinds were drawn, the front door locked with the keys bouncing around the artist’s neck after she had ducked outside and pulled the steel gates down and secured them. “Follow him to the back, you’ll probably be a little more comfortable back there,” she said with a smile as she turned back to Harleen.

Harleen then turned to Chato, who was holding up the vertical door in the countertop so that she could walk through and follow him to the back. “Thank you,” she said softly, thanking him both for holding the door and probably for the quick rescue that he had provided her as well.

He nodded silently in response, leading the way to the tattoo chair set up and sanitized. Harleen took a chair off to the side, unsure of what she was really waiting for. Marisol answered by giving her something to do, handing her a portfolio.

“Pick something. We’ll make you an appointment for a later date”

“When she’s not panicking.” Chato mumbled as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Marisol nodded, gesturing to the Latino man. “When you’re not panicking.”

Harleen could feel the purposely botched tattoo on her back almost itching.

“How, uh, good is your cover up work?” she asked, watching artist and collector begin to prepare for what she hoped would be a session long enough that Jay would disappear and she could get home to start her torturous sabbatical in peace.

“Baby, I work miracles. The human body is my preferred canvas,” the smaller young woman snapped on a pair of latex gloves so she could start working. “I’ll fix you up right.”

Though she sincerely figured that she would be leaving the parlor with no intent of ever, ever coming back after the horrors of her last tattoo and the extent of the infection, Harleen flipped open to the first pages of the portfolio, the exhaustion of a comedown from an adrenaline high looming in her periphery. Idly listening to the pair speak for a few moments, it wasn’t much longer before the steady buzzing of a tattoo gun  joined the white noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thiiiis is my first foray into anything DC and is mostly just a handful of ideas I had after seeing Suicide Squad twice in a row. I have a lot of ideas for this universe because of a friend of mine, so here's to hoping I can keep writing? Comments are welcome, but no hate please! I'm writing this for fun and for my enjoyment! I will try to update regularly! Title is from Whoops by 12th Planet & Mayhem, ft pennybirdrabbit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Placing a warning here for a flashback that Harleen has depicting violence very typical to Mad Love as a pairing. However, as this is not a Joker/Harley-centric fic, the warning is necessary.

“So, what’s your name, darlin’?” Marisol asked her something like an hour later.

Harleen had been deep in her own thoughts, examining a very intricate mandala tattooed on someone’s stomach, the quiet conversation and buzzing of the gun fading below her consciousness threshold as she flipped through the extensive portfolio. “Hm?” She looked up, her eyes meeting Chato’s for a brief moment before they moved to Marisol’s back. From this angle, the psychiatrist could see that she did indeed have an undercut. “I’m Harleen, sorry. Forget my manners sometimes.”

“Harleen, huh?” Her voice sounded like a smile, the younger woman not once looking up from the piece that she was outlining on the man’s side. “I’m Marisa, but my friends call me Marisol. Senor Esqueleto here is-“

“Chato Santana,” he interrupted, Harleen catching the tail end of his eyeroll at the spirited girl’s teasing.

 _I know who you are,_ Harley wanted to say. She didn’t. It was much like people knowing her for Jay’s charges being dropped, for the people privy to the case framing her to be some sort of money-hungry slut out to ruin his life instead of a bona fide victim. She hated that feeling, like people only wanted to speak to her because of the high profile case tied to her name, and she could only imagine Chato felt the same.

“It’s nice to meet both of you,” she said instead, choosing to stray as far away from his prison release and the false accusations of him murdering his family as she possibly could.

The man watched her for a long moment in a way that almost unnerved her, probably because she still couldn’t place whether it was tattoos, eyebrows, or both that made it so hard for her to read him. “You’re a doctor, yeah? Arkham. Quinzel?”

Harley smiled lightly and nodded, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, that’s the one,” she replied. “Arkham for now, at least. The thought of private practice is definitely something that I’m looking into for the future.” _The distant future, if I make it that far, even._

His expression changed, softened. She didn’t know what that meant, and it was almost maddening. Whatever question he had, he didn’t ask, dropping his head back to his forearms as Marisol dutifully continued her work. They started to talk about his housing situation now that he was out, and Harleen toned it out, figuring it wasn’t her place to listen in on the conversation. Her attention went back to the portfolio. The next tattoo was an almost cartoonish cat sarcophagus, the lines of sharp black contrasting against the crisp colors. It was almost a marvel to her how someone could be so skilled. She mostly just doodled, and couldn’t really remember the last time that she had actually done something bigger and detailed and actually managed to finish it. Jay wasn’t big on the amount of paper, paint, and general mess that she made when she was getting creative.

_“Get this shit out of here,” Jay snapped as he entered the living room, Harleen’s art projects in neat piles so as to stay out of the way._

_Harleen started, setting her sketchbook on the sidetable as she stood. “I’m sorry, puddin’. I’ll put it all away and-“_

_The green-haired man loomed for a moment, an expression of quiet rage on his face before he pulled the sizeable knife that he kept on his person at all times. She flinched as he brought it up, the bittersweet mixture of relief and hurt coming when he didn’t hurt her, but slashed her painting violently, running the stretched canvas that she had been messing around on. Flinching, picturing her flesh mirroring those tattered ribbons, the woman watched helplessly as he picked up her sketchbook, throwing it into the fire so hard that the burning logs clattered, crackling loudly as they dislodged from the neat pile._

_The next moment, his hand was on her jaw, gripping so tight that she could feel the bruises beginning to blossom as she was forced to face him._

_“What did I say?”_

_She whimpered in anticipation of the worst, her eyes closing tightly._

Blinking back to reality at the sharp taste of iron on her tongue, the psychiatrist realized that she had bitten the inside of her cheek.

“See something you like yet?” Marisol asked her, breaking into her bubble of solitude once more.

“Not yet,” Harleen replied softly. She eyed the cat for a moment longer. Selina would love it, and if they were talking, she would have even encouraged Harleen to get it. Dared her, had they still been in college, since Harley had been the type who couldn’t resist when her friends had asserted that she, good girl and soon to be Dr Harleen Quinzel, was no fun and never took risks. She pushed the thoughts of her former friends away- “Nothing feels right yet-“ and turned the page so that she didn’t have to look at the sarcophagus anymore.

_There are just too many doors that I’m not ready to open up yet._

“Give it time. Something will spark a muse if you really want it.” Something about Marisol’s voice seemed so wise for someone who seemed so young, weirdly refreshing and offputting all at once.

The doctor hummed, letting the buzzing take her away again. She could feel the marrow-deep tiredness in all of her bones, the weakness she felt when the neurotransmitters that romped so wildly around her brain had finally worn off in the wake of her anxiety attack dissipating into nothingness. She was down from the majority of the panic, but not quite from the ever-present prickling need to stay alert. Still, the world faded out of focus, her body unable to keep up with the stress she had been feeling. The next thing she was aware of, she was being gently shaken awake. Instinctively, Harleen flinched away, which sent Chato reeling back, hands raised in the universal sign of meaning no harm.

“Marisa is done for the night,” he told her, his quiet voice almost like sandpaper around the edges. “She’s ordering me to make sure you get home safe.”

“I-“ Harleen froze, turning to look for the small, dark-haired girl only to be stopped by Chato shaking his head.

“Ain’t no use fighting her,” he assured her.

“I don’t wanna make you go out of your way.”

His lips twitched into the slightest of smile. “Nowhere to go any time soon, doc.”

She was reluctant. Reluctant to accept the offer because she had a bad habit of making decisions that screwed her over in the end, but also reluctant to continue to rebuff the offer because they had gone out of their way to give her sanctuary from a monster that might not have even been there. But he seemed sincere, and she hated walking Gotham alone…

In a daze from just being woken up, the blonde carefully gathered the portfolio and her things, replacing the former with the other books on the countertop. She had a couple questions, most in relation to how long she had been allowed to sleep and why they hadn’t woken her, but she didn’t have the chance to ask, Marisol returning to usher them through the vertical door and out the front. Running her tongue over the sore inside of her cheek, Harleen made sure to make a mental note of the name of the parlor so that she could continue considering whether or not she wanted to cover the literal monstrosity on her back.

Rain came down in a light drizzle as they stepped outside into the night, Harleen resisting the urge to groan aloud at the unfairness of the day. The forecast had called for rain in the evening, but she had rushed out of her house to get to work for an early meeting and had forgotten both an umbrella _and_ a hoodie in the event that she forgot her umbrella on the island. As agitated as she was about it, the sting was soothed away as she glanced over at her escort home, finding that his light smile had returned to his lips, the man clearly enjoying himself.

“Got out today,” he answered the question she didn’t ask because she already knew the answer. “Spent a lotta time in solitary confinement just… existing.”

She could feel the frown form on her face. He wasn’t one of her patients, but that didn’t make her any less concerned that he had been in a cement tomb for twenty-three hours a day for God knew how many days. “Prolonged solitary confinement is torture.” Maybe she had never been to prison, but she certainly knew the long term effects of isolation and how adverse they could be.

“I asked for it.”

“Snitch?” she asked before she could stop herself from making a fool of herself, stepping carefully over a puddle.

He laughed. The sound startled her a bit, warm and light, not manic and heavy the way she was used to hearing in such a close proximity.

“Nah, doc, ain’t a snitch. Got in a lotta fights, though.”

Harleen hummed again, an understanding but not an acceptance. “Rain’s gotta be a blessing then.”

“Absolutely.”

“So solitary reformed you?” she asked, curiosity coloring her words like a cat that spilled and spread paint everywhere.

“Nah, but solitary gave me the time to think about the man I wanted to be if I got out. I’ll die in peace before I raise my fists again,” he told her seriously.

She smiled with an ease that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Gotham’s never-ending symphony of sirens played on, the sounds of the city creating an invisible barrier between them as they walked along, matching each other stride for stride. Harleen could feel her short hair plastering itself to her face and neck, reaching up intermittently to wipe away droplets gathering on her glasses and obscuring her vision. They weren’t too far out from her building now, the blonde excited to get out of the rain and warm up.

Chato didn’t fuss about the rain the way she did, but if she remembered properly –and she did- he had been behind bars for a good while. The silence, only broken by passing cars, distant sirens, and pattering raindrops, finally began to get to the doctor, the woman finding her voice again to ask him something that had been bothering her.

“How do you know Marisol?” she asked, clearing her throat. “You two seem very close.”

“Her older brother was one of my lieutenants,” he replied offhandedly, glancing at her as if to gauge her reaction. She didn’t freak out about the vague reference to a gang, gesturing vaguely to prompt him to continue. “He was my right hand, my brother. He made me swear to look out for her when he got real sick. That girl’s all I got in the world…”

He trailed off into silence again, his eyes dark and almost sad. It made Harleen’s heart ache. Sure, she was sad. She was the walking definition of functional depression at this point. That was why she tried so hard to help others, and to be their smile when they couldn’t bring themselves to smile. So it kind of hurt her, even though she barely knew this man, to see the pain in his eyes.

Rounding the corner, she stopped some ten feet from the doorman, turning to face Chato. “This one’s me.”

It wasn’t much, a building that had been around for a long time. Harleen had gotten her apartment with help from one of her coworkers, a break in her rent because her landlady had a soft spot for battered women trying to make new starts. She had the top floor loft, and roof access that she hadn’t done anything with. It was a place to call home, and that was what mattered.

Chato looked up at the building and nodded, taking a step back from her. “Be well, doc,” he told her, turning to walk off into the rain and shadows.

He didn’t make it more than two steps before her voice left her lips beyond her control.

“You got out today, right? Where are you going to go?”

He turned back to look at her, hands deep in the pockets of his old jacket. “Hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe sleep in a church somewhere.”

“Would you like to come up?” she asked.

 _Oh, you idiot, what are you doing?!_ A voice in her head screamed.

 ** _Where else is he going to go? It’s raining and most of the shelters are going to be packed anyway,_** she replied silently to that little voice. Nobody ever commended Harleen on the positive life decisions that she made, but let them at least know that she didn't like to leave anyone out in the cold.

“I don’ wanna impose,” he started, but like he had earlier, she shook her head, stopping his words from continuing to flow.

“You can crash for the night,” Harleen asserted. “We can see if we can find you a place to stay in the morning.” She waited for him to nod in agreement before leading the way inside. She nodded to the doorman, who had pulled his collar up to try and stop from having any water roll down the back of his neck. He didn't spare Chato a glance; there was a man in the building who had body modifications that made him look an awful lot like a human crocodile, so facial tattoos weren't new to him. The doors gave way to a lobby that was much warmer than the outside, and blissfully empty at that. Small mercies for Harleen after a particularly rough one that day.

One of the coolest things about her place was the freight elevator. Unless a specific key was used, it wouldn’t move, which meant that only she could access her place. The landlady had specifically cleared out of the loft so that Harleen could move in, as it was safer for her that way. Plus, she’d taken the apartment one floor down, making her the de facto gatekeeper of said freight elevator. Harleen made a mental note to send her thank you flowers. The elevator slowed to a stop, the young doctor pulling up the metal gate and then pulling the folding gate aside, letting Chato exit before she secured both again.

Insulated, recyclable grocery bags sat outside the door, as well as a small pile of her mail. Same bat-time, same bat-channel, everything going according to routine in Camp Harleen. Without her asking, Chato divided the bags carefully so he could carry everything in one trip. She didn’t have the chance to protest, unlocking her deadbolt and other various locks before opening the door and stepping aside so that he could enter first.

“Home, sweet home,” she intoned, tossing her keys down in the bowl by the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, okay, chapter two down. Chapter three in the works. I'm hoping to get it up soon, but I'm waiting on getting my laptop fixed so that I can try to post semi-regularly on a schedule :/
> 
> Anywho! If you would like to reach me, as AO3 doesn't have a messaging system, you can find me kicking around and being a garbage can emoji on tumblr at chatosantanadefensesquad


	3. Chapter 3

It was fairly clean inside, mostly because Harleen hadn’t spent too much time away from the sanctity of her bed in the past few weeks. Her bedroom was a different story, but everything else was mostly fine. Chato moved past her, carrying her groceries to the kitchen and leaving her to take stock of everything.

Generally, you could at least attempt to tell a lot about a person based on what they did and didn’t have in their living space. Books, movies, and music said things, as did what they chose to put on the walls. Her books, movies, and music were eclectic in style and genre, and clearly from the stylized vinyl figures with big heads, crystals, and small, potted succulents, she liked to collect things. There was nothing personal, though. No pictures of family or friends, no achievements. It was all pretty hollow, the only thing actually on Harleen’s wall being a rather large projection screen for when she wanted to be frivolous and scroll the internet on a stupidly big screen, or watch Netflix for a few hours. She had yet to have the opportunity to use the fireplace, but she knew how faulty wiring was in older buildings in Gotham, so she was sure that she might actually get some use out of it eventually. The mantle above it was empty. 

For a split second, the doctor wondered what people would think if they noted the lack of a life that people usually decorated their homes with. Regardless, this place was as close to home as she had managed since before Jay, and there was something of almost paramount importance in all that.

Taking her bag off and setting it on the table that she only sometimes ate at, Harleen moved silently to help Chato put the groceries away. Really, she felt that she should do it herself, since he had carried everything inside, but she figured that he might argue along the lines of her giving him a place to stay, so he wanted to help. “Once we get this done, I’ll show you around and we can get you settled for the night.”

The night. She hoped that he had somewhere to go that wouldn’t end him right back in Arkham. Chato seemed like a nice guy, and maybe that was just Harleen making more poor decisions and judgments about people, but she wanted to think that he really _was_. She didn’t say much after that, though, having remembered being told that she talked far too much in the past. So, she kept it limited to the scope of which fruits needed to stay out on the counter, and what cupboard the canned soup starters went in.

The task went a lot faster with an extra set of hands helping her out, and soon, Harleen and Chato had put everything where it belonged. “So, now you know where the food stuff is, that’s one thing down.”

The next few minutes in the kitchen were spent explaining things like where the cups were (above the coffee pot and kettle), where the plates and bowls were (in the cupboard directly right of that), and where the silverware was (the drawer directly underneath the aforementioned coffee pot and kettle). Harleen didn’t ever have anyone stay over, at least not since she had moved into her new place, so she didn’t have any set rules about whether or not you should wash your dishes or rinse them and leave them for someone else –her, obviously- to do in the morning. To his credit, Chato didn’t ask.

After the kitchen, she figured that the bathroom was the best bet to explain next. Her shower was simple: pull out the knob to turn the water on, turn one way for hot, turn the other for cold, and adjust accordingly.

When he lingered near the bathroom, she hesitated. “I’ve got sweats that could fit you, if you wanted me to throw your clothes into the laundry while you shower?”

“You don’t mind? Looks like you need the warm water more.”

Harleen shrugged a little. “I like to shower in the morning. Good way to wake up.”

He nodded slightly, stepping toward her. “Finish showing me around first?”

The blonde smiled and nodded. “Can do.”

The guest bedroom looked like a tornado that hit a storage unit owned by a hoarder. Boxes lined the walls in piles four or five high, the mattress buried under suitcases and the bed frame leaned carefully against the furthest wall. 

“Not quite settled in yet, so I hope you don’t mind the couch too terribly,” she said apologetically, though his hum and shrug in response made her feel as though he didn’t really care. 

The only elevated area in the whole apartment was up a small spiral staircase, and functioned half as a small lounge area and half as Harleen’s home office. Nothing was set up there, either, as the woman did most of her work on the laptop that she used.

“It’s not a lot,” the woman told him, “but it’s home, I suppose.” Even she didn’t sound too sure. “I’ll get you a towel, c’mon.”

xxx

Harleen had brought him a pair of heather grey sweatpants, and a t-shirt featuring the name of what he assumed was a rollercoaster of some kind, given the mention of a theme park on the chest. He left them folded on her bathroom counter, setting his damp clothes outside the door in a neat pile, personal effects on the top of the pile, trusting that none of it would disappear while in the good doctor’s care. With the chance to look at his reflection, he frowned slightly. Five years with no access to proper care for his tattoos meant that he definitely needed some of them touched up. At least the dark ink that filled in the structure of his eye sockets hid the dark bags that probably lay underneath.

Turning on the shower the way that she had instructed him, he made sure that the water was lukewarm. Might as well get a jumpstart on proper care for his ink now that he could do that, right? He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting to find in her shower, though most of the bottles he opened seemed to be scentless. He wondered if that had something to do with her working with some of Gotham’s worst minds. Scent was something that people had been known to obsess over, right? Whatever it was, the perfumeless soap was what he needed, so he hoped that she didn’t mind him using it.

As the water rolled down his body, he tried to keep his thoughts clear. Silence and moments of peace often had his mind wandering to places that he needed it to not go in order to stay at least a semi-functional human being. He was mostly mumbling to himself, trying to make a mental plan for how he was going to handle the day the next morning. He would need to see what his finances looked like first, since you kind of needed money and all that to get what you needed to renew your identification. Over the sound of the water hitting the bottom of the shower, he heard a buzz that sounded like someone paging an apartment’s intercom. Harleen’s chipper voice carried back to his ears, the man smiling slightly to himself. She almost sounded completely different from what he’d heard of her, at least what he could hear of her now.

Toweled off, dressed and actually warm again, he was greeted by the smell of greasy Chinese food as he entered the living room again, along with the sight of Harleen opening and inspecting various containers. She had even grabbed a plate and a water bottle for him, though from his experience with getting shitty takeout over the years, what she had ordered was definitely not enough for two people.

“Sharing?” he asked, his voice feeling as though it cracked.

“Yeah. Monday is basically my Friday, so I order takeout in the morning and have it delivered around this time at night.” She set down the container that she was holding as he sat on the floor across from her, observing her quietly as she started to scoop noodles out onto her plate.

“You’re staring, you know,” she pointed out after an eternity of silence that lasted a second. “Burning questions?”

He hesitated. “You aren’t gonna psychoanalyze me if I ask them, are you?”

Harleen shook her head, lips poking out in a pout. The expression was amusing, clearly one of distaste, but one that almost made her look like a teenager. Weird contrast for someone who radiated the maturity that she did, even when she was panicking.

So, he asked. Why Arkham? Why not somewhere that would make her more money? Did she not get tired of the security, or even the number of times that they went into lockdown? That one really intrigued him, because he absolutely despised the number of times that they went into lockdown. Chato wanted to know a lot of whys. Why psychiatry? Why pursue two majors at once? Why stay in Gotham when, with the intellect and skills that she had, the academic and medical world was pretty much her oyster? Why let him stay at her place when she knew that he had recently been incarcerated in her place of work?

He also wanted to know about Valeska. A gangster himself once upon a time, Chato Santana knew all too well about the so-called Clown Prince –was that a pun?- of Gotham, and it wasn’t as if it was a secret that Dr. Harleen Quinzel had been a complainant against the man. He knew better than to ask, because he’d heard other rumors about Jay Valeska and his obsession with the doctor that the reformed man most certainly hoped were only rumors. If the way that she froze in Marisol’s shop earlier had said anything, it was probably that all those rumors were true. Besides that, the doctor hadn’t asked him about his sordid history, so it would’ve been out of order to ask about hers.

To her credit, she answered. It was clear from the words that she chose –each carefully weighted as if she was stringing them together to hang and display like a necklace- that she didn’t speak about herself too often. There was a hesitance that was different than what he’d seen in women of her caliber; she was a wunderkind around the asylum, and everyone, even patients, knew damn well what Dr. Quinzel’s mind was capable of. There was always the issue of men with the same qualifications talking down to women like her, which made women like her prone to placing limits on what they knew, but that wasn’t what this was. This was like someone stuck a glass over a lit flame and watched it suffocate until the ember was just barely sending up smoke. Someone had told her once that she wasn’t worth the vanity of bragging about what she had achieved, and it stuck with her.

He knew the look. He’d seen it on enough of his girls to know that someone had undervalued her. What a load of bullshit. She was articulate and compassionate, something he could see as the conversation turned away from her to just general conversation. He missed a lot while he was put away, and so Harleen had a number of recommendations for him just all across the board. Apparently J.K. Rowling had released another Harry Potter project. 

“I’ve got a copy of it, if you wanna read it, but I’ll let you make your own decisions,” she told him with the air of someone watching someone else prepare to take a drink of something noxious.

“I appreciate that, thank you,” he laughed, pushing a snap pea around his plate with his fork.

It was kind of refreshing to be spoken to like a friend, but the conversation was cut short by a face-splitting yawn from the young doctor. He helped her gather dishes and leftover takeout boxes, leading most of the cleaning that they had to do after eating. He didn’t mind it, really. Least he could do, he told her, shooing her off before she could do anything. It wasn’t like there was that much to do anyway, just putting away cartons of food, scraping the dishes, and sticking them into the dishwasher. She relented, letting him do what he was going to, even if she told him that he was a guest and didn’t have to. Which she did. Five times in about a minute. Did that stop him? No. Not in the slightest.

“Good night, Chato,” the doctor finally said softly as she gave up pressing the issue and walked back down the hallway that she had said the bedrooms were down.

“Night, doc,” he replied, waiting until he heard her door close –and lock- to finally sit.

Marisol was probably safe at home with her cycloptic cat, feeling very pleased with herself. Even when she was just a tiny little chica, she had been the type to meddle. He should’ve been at her place. Hell, she had even offered to let him come to live with her at their last visit before everything was finally overturned and expunged.

_ I’ll think about it _ , he had said.

_ That means no, _ her voice had carried through the handset.

And she wasn’t wrong, that was the sad part. That girl knew him like she knew the song playing when she finally started to begin tattooing the outlines of the skulls on his chest after taking forever to get started. She _knew_ that he was going to say no. She _knew_ that he was going to keep beating himself up, like a Catholic paying never-ending penance. Marisol was all he had left, and he felt like he didn’t deserve her, and she knew damn well that he felt that way.

He didn't deserve Marisol’s love, and he also didn't deserve Harleen’s kindness. 

The woman had legitimately every reason to be distrustful. She was a doctor at the facility that he was just released from, and while she hadn't treated him during his time in that godforsaken place, she had to have known about him, had her feelings or suspicions. She was being good about hiding them if she did. Or maybe she was one of those bleeding hearts that believed in his innocence. 

_ Dios mío,  _ he thought, scrubbing his hands over his face as he sank into her sofa. 

A very small inner voice told him to chill, to relax and enjoy things at face value. He’d had a hot shower, a hotter meal, and he had a roof over his head for the night. He’d clear out first thing in the morning and see if he could find something then. Yeah, that was a good plan. _Just chill, homie._

Chato was kind of glad that the blonde had him out on the couch. The man wasn't entirely sure how he would cope with actually being out of Arkham, with sleeping in a bed that wasn't standard issue to each the cells. At least the sweats he was borrowing were comfortable. They were a pair of Harleen’s, obviously, but they were close enough in height that they didn't fit weird at all. In the scheme of things, this was pretty great. 

Realizing that he hadn't grabbed a blanket before, when Harleen had shown him where the extras were, Chato stood, stretching slightly as he made his way back to the closet that she had pointed out. The first one to catch his eye was a soft blue one, the man closing his hand around the fabric. It had that well-loved feel to it, as if it was important to someone for comfort. For a second, he was reminded of his daughter’s favorite blanket, but only for a moment. When he lingered on the thought of his family, his mind went to dark places. His doctor had worked hard to pull him back to the light, even if he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

Sighing, the former banger pulled the blanket from the closet and closed the door, retreating to the safety of the sofa once more. The candle that Harleen lit on the coffee table burned slowly, letting the scent of lavender drift around the general vicinity of the furniture. It was calming, though lavender wasn’t one of the scents that Chato would call one of his favorites. Leaning down to blow it out, the tattooed man shook out the blanket that he’d pilfered from the hall closet, wrapping it around his shoulders and settling back in the spot that he had been sitting in a moment before. 

He wasn’t sure how easily rest would come to him; when he did sleep, he had horrible nightmare visions of what had happened to his family. What he’d done to his family? His head hurt when he thought too long about it, everything blurring together as if his vision was distorted by smoke billowing through his old home.

Suffice it to say it was going to be a long night for the newly freed Chato Santana. If he was lucky, maybe his dreams wouldn’t come.

He wasn’t lucky.

Chato never remembered falling asleep, but he remembered waking up and he remembered bits and pieces of his dreams when he did wake up. Tonight, there was nothing, just him panting in the darkness, his chest tight as if he had inhaled the smoke that consumed his family. Through the dark, he could see that the clock in the kitchen read 3:27am in blue LED lights. It had been closer to midnight at his last recollection of the clock, a revelation that drew a tired sigh from the man’s lips. He debated for a long moment whether or not he should stay awake until the morning, and simply settled for closing his eyes again.

Sleep took him swiftly, mercy bringing him no more nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself that I wasn't going to write 3k, and yet. AND YET. Here we are. 3019 words. Anywho, the first hints toward what happened with Chato and his family, as well as mentions of his old gang life and interactions with ladies affiliated with the gang. By 'his girls', I don't mean like working girls, I mean like little sisters. Kind of like Marisol. You take care of your own, ya feel me? More updates! My laptop is still not fixed, but thank god for google docs and a ridiculous amount of commute time. Hopefully chapter four will be up soon. As always, if y'all wanna talk to me about things, my tumblr is chatosantanadefensesquad. I plan to open up requests for oneshots in this universe at some point, so I'm gonna keep plugging that. See y'all next round. <3


	4. Chapter 4

 When Harleen woke up, her alarm clock glaring an angry red 5:59am, she couldn't help the discontent groan that left her. Normally, she would be up and getting ready for work in the next five minutes, on her way to catch the proper subways and shuttles in another fifteen minutes. Today, she was doing neither, and the texts from Rick reminded her of what she was doing.

  
Rolling onto her back, she sighed. Normally, to visit her parents wouldn't be so harsh, but this was different. This was wildly different. She hadn't spoken to her parents since her second year of college, when Jay came into her life. They had showed up to support her at the trial, and she couldn't bear to face them after his $7000 an hour mouthpiece dragged her sexual history out into the open as if she was the one on trial. She couldn't bear to see the pity and sorrow in their eyes, or even the shame and disappointment.

  
Rick, however, thought that it would do her some good. He had a lot of those thoughts. She supposed that was why she kept him around, really. He was a decent guy, and he'd seen her through a lot. And he had married a good friend of hers, Floyd Lawton, after the psychiatrist had quite literally pushed them together at a party.

  
Today's mission was to drive to Brooklyn, see her parents, and pull more of her stuff out of storage so she could settle comfortably in her new place. Rick was facilitating but only because Floyd was working, and neither of them would let her punk out.

  
Sometimes, she hated having good friends.

  
Dragging herself out of bed, Harleen stretched, did a couple sets of planks with appropriate breaks between, and then finally gathered the things that she needed to complete her morning routine. Since she was changing up all of her routines with this stupid sabbatical thing, she decided to go a different route with her soaps. Jasmine was light, but distinctive. It was pleasant and made Harleen feel calm. It wasn't clinical like the scentless stuff that she usually used. It was also different than the perfume that Jay preferred that she wear, this sickly sweet cherry blossom scent that had put her on the unscented stuff to begin with. The water rolling down her shoulders eased tension that her body immediately picked up again upon her waking, the blonde enjoying a quiet moment for the first time in a long time.

  
Her mind was simply too loud when she had nothing to distract her.

  
Instead of reapplying the carefully constructed face that she usually wore, Harleen opted to go without makeup, just applying a moisturizer. Almost immediately, she kind of regretted it. The bags under her eyes were that much more prominent, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in years. Squinting at her reflection, she almost panicked for a second at the thought that she might even be getting wrinkles. That was enough of that for the day, she decided, gathering up her clothes and heading to her small laundry room.

  
Chato’s clothing was dry when she checked on the dryer, the slightly-refreshed blonde pulling the worn fabric out and setting it in the empty basket that she had left by the door of the glorified closet that held her washer and dryer. Her clothes were dumped in the basket of her dirty clothing, allowing her to free up her arms and take her guest’s clothing in hand.

  
Her guest who actually appeared to be sleeping peacefully when she entered the common area of the loft.

  
It gave Harleen pause. Chato had seemed so on guard when he was awake that to see him asleep, eyes shifting under his eyelids as he dreamed about something, was almost strange. She carefully set his clothes on the coffee table, creeping back to the kitchen to attempt to get something to eat without making too much noise or waking him up. He looked like he could use the sleep, though she was sure the same could be said for her. Her creeping about only did so much good, because almost as soon as she reached into the cupboard to get a mug down to make herself a cup of coffee, the buzzer to her apartment filled her ears, Chato startling awake in her periphery.  
Her phone buzzed, a picture of Rick popping up. He liked to warn her before he just let himself up to her place with the spare that they agreed he would keep in the event of an emergency.

  
Excellent timing, Flag.

  
Chato gave her a confused look, as if questioning her about the visitor. The blonde shook her head, waving off the concern. He didn’t say anything as she went to the elevator, and she was pretty sure that he simply grabbed his clothing and wandered back to the bathroom to get dressed for the day. She waited patiently by the door to let her friend in, smiling at the sight of him through the peephole.

  
“Rick Flag, love of my life!’ the psychiatrist exclaimed as she threw the door open, the man in question marching into the room and scooping her up at her waist to hug her and hold her close.

  
“Harleen Quinzel, woman of my dreams,” he replied, southern drawl rolling over her like warm whiskey. Her feet hit the floor with a soft little thump, the blonde smiling up at her friend. Sure, his timing was horrible, and he was always too early for everything they ever planned to do, but that didn’t mean that she loved the guy any less. Did that mean that she was ready to make this drive? Hell no. But she knew that it would be easier with Rick at her side.

  
A lot had been easier with Rick at her side.

  
Apparently, her face had taken a faraway look, the man squeezing her shoulders to get her attention. “C’mon, Harleen. Right here, right now. Do you know where you are?”

  
Right here, right now, her mind echoed, despite the way her thoughts wanted to spiral to dark places lit with fluorescent lights, reeking of the clinical smell of industrial sanitizer used in hospitals.

  
“Right here, right now,” she echoed aloud, shaking her head slightly as if that would clear away the fog. Her lips curled into a smile, halfhearted. She was tired, though not from a lack of sleep. Not even out of the house yet and her battery was already running on empty.

  
As if on cue, Chato returned, Rick silently raising an eyebrow at Harleen. 

  
“CO,” the reformed gangster greeted with a respectful nod.

  
“Santana,” the retired soldier replied with a nod of his own.

  
Harleen frowned, the strange aura of masculinity clogging up the room. “I take it you two know each other from inside,” she mused aloud, watching as Chato moved back toward her kitchen.

  
“Chato was one of the patients I kept an eye on in solitary. The shrinks didn’t want anything to happen to him.”

  
“Flag had my back a lot before they let me out,” Chato filled in.

  
“Uh huh,” Harleen replied, unsure of really how to process the information. Just as long as all hell wasn’t about to break loose in her kitchen, she probably shouldn’t analyze the relationship between former prisoner and corrections officer too deeply. Rick was a good guy, and he had a strong gut when it came to looking out for people; she didn’t doubt that he looked out for the man of his own accord, seeing something good in him. She also didn’t doubt that he was going to lecture her when Chato wasn’t around. That was one of the things that he liked to do when her decisions went from reasonable to questionable, and letting a recently released inmate from her place of employment was probably near the top of the list of questionable decisions.

Potentially lower in negative consequences? Maybe.

  
While the boys went about fixing coffee, Harleen sat at her breakfast bar, hands lacing together. Their conversation faded into the background, the psychiatrist drifting quietly as if she wasn’t really there. Her thoughts weren’t concrete, floating by like smoke, but she was agitated enough that she wrung her hands absently. It hurt, to squeeze so tight, but that was just as hazy, the wringing only stopping when a warmer than should be normal hand came down over both of hers. Chato’s face swam in her vision before sliding back into focus, the heavily tattooed man offering her a cup of coffee. She swirled it lightly, grimacing a little bit when it appeared that there were more grounds than there was liquid.

  
“You ruined a perfectly good pot of coffee,” she pouted in disgust, though her tone was playful. She slid the ceramic mug back across the countertop, her fingertips brushing his as he took the cup back.

  
“Told ya she wouldn’t like it,” Rick mumbled from where he was pulling stuff out of her fridge like he owned the place.

  
“Yeah, yeah, know-it-all,” Chato muttered, setting a cup out for the corrections officer to take. Harleen grimaced as her friend took a hearty, grateful cup of what was basically engine sludge.

“That is…. That is just nasty,” she sighed, shaking her head. Her reaction drew a chuckle from Chato, which made a weird feeling settle in the pit of her stomach.

She pushed it away quickly, joining in on the quiet conversation about their respective plans for the day. Chato was going to try to renew his documents and get access to his bank account again, and Harleen and Rick were headed into Brooklyn, so everyone was going to be pretty busy it seemed.

It kind of struck her how nice the environment was, how it felt a little like having a family again. It kind of eased her anxiety about seeing her actual family that afternoon. Rick worked hard at making breakfast so that Harleen would eat, Chato leaning against the countertop nearest her sink and sipping his gritty coffee. It helped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is way late, and short, but hopefully I'll have two more updates here soon! Rick showed up though! This was posted from my phone so pls be gentle, I didn't edit it. :c see you soon, darlings!


	5. Chapter 5

Rick had only been to Harleen’s apartment a couple times, mostly to check out the security of the building -he approved- and to help her move things in as quickly as possible. After that, they had both been so swamped with work that there had been no socializing between the correction’s officer and the psychiatrist, save for what she called the Mom-friend Check In Texts. He had asked her not to call them that, but Floyd encouraged her, so there was no stopping it.

As he fried up his mama’s sausage gravy on Harleen’s stove, he would be lying if he said that her taking in a man recently released from the facility that she worked in didn’t worry him. He honestly wondered what she thought that she was doing. Not that Harleen wasn’t a woman capable of making her own decisions…

Rick was just… worried, that was all.

He had known Harleen since she was just an intern at Arkham, before she was a fully employed doctor. She was quiet, and when she wasn’t smiling, her face rested in something like a scowl, but when she did smile, she could light up the darkest room. A little skittish, the young doctor had a habit of noting any potential escape route from a room and made sure to place herself as close to it as she could. Arkham was a madhouse, not a place for a girl like her, and he sure as hell wasn’t talking about the inmates. The retired soldier kept an eye out for her, and the first time she had come to work with bruises, he nearly went into a frenzy and called everyone in his command in for interrogation about who had done it. She was one of a very limited number of women on the staff, and others had been shoved around in the past.

That was when he had learned about Valeska.

She broke down when he had pressed her about it one day, standing in a path gated off on either side. The yard was empty so that nobody could get word back to that monster of a man of hers, and she clung to the vest of his riot gear so that her legs didn’t go out from under her with the gravity of admitting that she was abused. Rick had vowed from that moment on to have her back and stand by her side. He became her confidante, but they both had to tread carefully; Jay had eyes and ears everywhere. One wrong move and it was very possible that Harleen would lose her life, and she had a long life ahead of her.

They became close, like siblings. Her relationship with her little brother was shitty, and he had been his mother’s only son, so it was kind of refreshing. He introduced her to self-defense tactics that might help her be a little more confident. She, in turn, introduced him to Floyd Lawton, another retired special ops man who had been a physical trainer that she worked with in college, before Jay entered her life. Floyd was one of the few people pre-Valeska that she kept contact with, if only because Floyd Lawton was very persistent when he had his mind set on something. Rick…

Well, Rick really liked Floyd. He listened to the things that Rick needed to ramble about when the mood arose, talked him through his worries about the young Miss Quinzel and her safety, even coached him through his worries about June’s increasing distance. Floyd filled the void when she finally left to focus on her work, and they were waiting for things to be a bit more settled before they actually got married. Rick was wearing Floyd’s ring and that was all thanks to Harleen.

Listening idly to her and Chato’s conversation, which was about dogs presently, the soldier found himself silently wishing that he could have done more for Harleen before it got to this point. He wished he could’ve extracted her before Jay had hurt her. He wished that he never had to see her look as small and fragile as she had when she was finally out of surgery and able to have visitors. Most importantly, he wished that she had never had to hear the words ‘not guilty on all counts’. The blonde had been through so much, but that was just insult to injury. Rick's memories of the unsatisfying end to the trial consisted mostly of shielding her from reporters, keeping her close every time a flash went off and she flinched at the volume of people’s voices, recording devices shoved in her face. It was all in vibrant color, how pale she was and how angry it made him to know that they were just looking for a soundbite or two to further vilify and shame her. She didn’t leave her bed for days, and when her old place was suspiciously vandalized, Rick pushed for her to move and called in a favor that a friend of his owed him.

She hadn’t settled, and the place still looked like it did when Tatsu was staying there, but it was coming along. Hence, the trip to Brooklyn to get the rest of her things from both a storage unit and her mother’s home. Oh yeah. It was going to be one of  those days.

Making sure that he hadn’t burned the slop that he was pretty certain would disappoint his mother if she knew just how lazily he used her recipe, he dished up three plates, leaving the rest to cool on the stove just in case someone wanted seconds. Taking the plates to the breakfast bar finally gave him a chance to focus on the way that she interacted with Chato, and the ease that he saw told him that there was something in her that was healing. That was important. He could see it in the little smiles and the way that she rolled her eyes at them. Harleen was at ease around them both, and that was good.

It also brought him back full circle to his concern about her ability to be so relaxed around a man who was just exonerated from a preeeetty steep and serious sentence, but he didn’t say anything to her about it. They could discuss it in the care when it was just the two of them and Chato wasn’t around. Rick liked Chato a lot, and felt for the man for the last eight years of hell he had gone through. Regardless, his feelings for Harleen were probably only trumped by his feelings for Zoe Lawton, and that was saying something.

“I think I might adopt a dog,” Harleen said as Rick joined her and Chato at the breakfast bar, interrupting her sentence to give Rick a quiet ‘oh, thank you’ as he set the plate of biscuits and gravy in front of her.

“Dog could be good. They let some people keep cats in Arkham,” the tattooed man replied. “Ain’t nobody ever hurt the animals. Made some guys straighten up real fast, you know?”

“You didn’t have a cat?” She asked, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.

“Chato attracted too many cats,” Rick interjected. “The problem was that… well-”

“Also attracted a lot of fights. Wasn’t fair to the little thing. You wanna give ‘em a good home, not risk them being hurt just because someone has beef with you.”

Harleen hummed, an understanding expression. It struck Rick as odd, how simple and domestic this all was. He imagined it must have been kind of calming for Harleen. He’d talk to her about that too.

“Dog could be a good choice, Harl,” he told her, stepping away from the breakfast bar to rifle through her fridge for orange juice.

“It’s in the door,” she told him without missing a beat, knowing exactly what he had been searching for. Turning his head to the right, the man mumbled a quiet ‘huh’, wrapping his hand around the neck of the jug and carrying it back to the bar.

The rest of the meal went without a hitch. Harleen went off to pack a quick day bag after she had cleared her plate, Chato helping Rick clean up.

“Got a game plan?” He asked the exonerated man.

Chato nodded. “It’s a little vague right now. I know what I have to do, though. I’m gonna try to stick with that.”

“Gonna go see Marisa again?” He asked.

A hum, a shrug. “She's the one who handled my affairs. Got some stuff to get in order.”

The soldier nodded slightly, and reached into his pocket for the notebook he varied. Pulling the golf pencil from the spiral, he scribbled down ten digits and tore the page from the little yellow book, giving it to Chato. “Just in case you need to call.”

The tattooed man paused, set down the dish he had been drying, and took the paper from the corrections officer. His dark eyes read the number and he nodded politely, tucking the paper into his pocket. He didn’t get another word in before Rick started the dishwasher, Harleen returning with her bag over one shoulder.

“Ready to go?” he asked her.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” the blonde replied with a small smile. Turning her attention to Chato, she inclined her head toward the door, an indication for them to follow. The man followed, Harleen locking the door behind them as soon as they were all out, then double checking the locks to make sure. Rick smiled softly. She was learning, and that was good.

The freight elevator ride was short, but it always seemed like an eternity when it wasn’t full of chatter. Harleen kept her eyes down on the toes of her boots, Chato keeping his eyes up on the numbers as they ticked, counting down until they hit L. Exiting into the lobby, Rick halted in his tracks as Harleen pressed a spare set of keys into Chato’s hand.

“Just in case you don’t want to stay with Marisa tonight,” she told him. “I don’t know how late we’ll be back.”

Rick could see that Chato wanted to deny the offer, but she didn’t give him a chance, returning to Rick’s side and tugging the former soldier toward the exit without another word. He had to have been giving her a look of incredulity, because she responded to him simply by cocking a neatly manicured brow and gesturing for him to lead the way to his truck.  
If she had anything to say about the Look that he had given her, she didn’t say anything, letting it build quietly until finally coming out with it. They had been in the car for about fifteen minutes at that point.

“What was the look for?”

Well. At least that was simple.

Weighing his words carefully, Rick furrowed his brow. “What do you know about Chato Santana?”

“Not a whole lot,” she replied, a tone of regret that he knew well decorating her words like the small plants on her shelf. “His files were off-limits. Crane and his power trips, something about not wanting to end up with a fraternization case on his hands, or something like that. I do know that the police bungled his case, though, and that he was released.”

The man nodded slightly, though grit his teeth. Of all the doctors at Arkham, he hated Jonathan Crane the most. The scarecrow-like man just left a bad taste in Rick’s mouth, and Crane had always targeted Harleen for no reason. Rick liked to think that it was because he was nervous that Harls might eventually take over the Asylum and revolutionize it to the best of her ability, and Crane was sitting on top at the moment. Much as she really did need a break following the trial and the torment that followed it, the former soldier was fairly certain that the sabbatical was just the start of pushing the young, brilliant psychiatrist out of Arkham.

“He was wrongfully convicted of triple homicide,” he said finally. “He was trying to get out of the gang life and there was retaliation. His wife and two children were inside, and the cops made assumptions when they arrived to the scene. Don’t get me wrong, he was a banger. He had a violent streak. They called him El Diablo. But he wouldn’t hurt his family. Didn’t do women or children.”Rick cleared his throat, glancing over at Harleen. “Just because he was exonerated doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful.”

The words came out harsher than he intended them to, Harleen curling in on herself as if she was scolded. A feeling of guilt struck Rick right in the chest, the man falling quiet again.

It was another ten minutes before she said anything, her voice hesitant and mousy the way it often was during the trial.

“I trust him because he made sure I was safe when I last saw Jay. Or, at least it looked like him. Chato could see that I was on the verge of a panic attack and could see the person posturing so that I would see them, and he made Marisa let me stay. Then, Marisa made him walk me home.”

His hands gripped the wheel so tightly that they almost started to hurt after a few moments. He didn’t have to say anything for her to know exactly what he was thinking. She reached over after a moment, her hand coming to rest on his knee. She squeezed it tenderly, giving him a weak little smile.

“Getting out of Gotham will be good,” she reminded him. 

She was right, and the trip had been at his insistence in the first place. He sighed, loosening his grip on the steering wheel and letting the tension bleed from his shoulders as best he could. “You’re right,” he told her, “But you should have told me.”

She fell quiet again, taking her hand back so that she could lace her fingers together in her lap. “You and Floyd are planning a wedding. You don’t need to shoulder my problems on top of something that big.”

He scoffed.

“I’m serious, Flag,” Harleen told him, petulant.

“I know,” he told her with a little grin, but didn’t say any more on the subject as he turned off toward the toll bridge. “Questionable choices aside… It’s good to see you smile again, peach.”

A little laugh left her, not unlike his scoff, and the smile was back. “It’s good to smile again,” she replied.

The rest of the ride passed in mostly idle conversation. Harleen asked how Floyd was doing, how Zoe was doing in school. She was a brilliant kid, and she was so sad that Harleen hadn’t been around to ask questions, and it hurt Rick to tell her that, but maybe it would get her to come around more. If not for them, then for Zoe. Breaking through her conditioned propensity for isolation was hard, and maybe it wasn’t exactly an intelligent idea to propose, but-

“Have you tried getting into contact with Pam and Lena?”

Bad move. Harleen froze, glancing over at him.

“It’s not a bad idea, Harleen.”

“Can we survive visiting my parents before ushering me into talking to women who hate me?” she asked him.

“They don-” At the look on her face, something between anger and pleading, he bit his tongue, nodding shortly. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” she replied, taking out her headphones. Her phone came out, but as he was driving, he couldn’t really glance over to see what it was that she was going to listen to. He assumed it was an audio book, because she had a penchant for playing them when they were taking drives. She seemed almost cool, but he could see that she was a little bit stressed, and so he wasn’t going to push the subject. It all depended on how stressful this visit with her mother was, and he was getting the feeling that it was going to be a bad one the closer and closer they got to Brooklyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much later than it needed to be, but hopefully I can get a system down. Writing Rick was weird but fun, and hopefully I'll get a handle on his voice because he's going to be showing up a little bit more. Maybe in some B-Sides. Who knows?


End file.
